I have a home inside my dreams
amid a forest of evergreens,
with sparkling water not too far,
and skylights to let in the stars.
My forest, green with mossy bark,
from misty rain and velvet dark,
has soil soft with molted leaves
outside home’s walls and wooden eaves.
A fire set in white-washed stone
highlights the mantle’s honey-tone.
It warms the room, glowing serene,
and conjures up a cozy scene.
And when I dream, I walk the halls,
trail fingertips on gray, stone walls.
I plod upon the cushioned rugs
while balancing steaming tea mugs.
Inside, there is one thing it lacks-
a place to sleep. But why? you ask.
In dreams, I do not sleep a wink,
for that would be surreal; I think.
Instead there is a weathered chair,
its leather arms, softened from wear.
I curl up in its squashy seat
to take in a view that can’t be beat.
Windows look out on dense trees,
a wall of glass to better see
the mossy world my house calls home,
beneath the color-changing dome.
I look out at my forest grow
and know, in waking, I must go.
I savor time and stone and beams
while I’m awake inside my dreams.
cozy does it 